“I heard he got ten years. Is that right?” Crouten finished off the Snickers in two bites.
Caravini shook his head. “Let’s move on. What do you have for me?”
Crouten crossed his legs and chewed with his mouth open. “It’s about the Grannis investigation.”
“You were keeping tabs on an associate from Dudek’s. What was his name?”
“Glen Towers.”
“Did you discover what his connection was to Grannis?”
“Nope. I think Towers has nothing to do with them. He’s not been back there, and we can’t link him to any of Grannis’s people.”
“Another waste of time. I told you Grannis was a small fish.”
“You did say something like that.”
“You have to know where to spend your time, Floyd. After a while, you develop a nose for what’s important in this game.”
“Well, my nose told me there was something going on at Grannis.” He paused and then smiled. “And I believe I promised you a shark.”
Caravini leaned forward. “Are you telling me it’s not been a complete waste of time?”
“Towers is innocent. I’m certain of that. However, I think we may have found a partner with connections to Grannis.”
“A Dudek’s partner?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Caravini grinned. “Now that would be a shark. What do you have?”
“I had Kaminski watching the Grannis building. Whenever I could, I joined him. We were hoping to see Towers make another appearance but, instead, we discovered his boss visiting on a couple of occasions.”
“His boss is the partner?”
Crouten nodded.
“This could be big,” said Caravini with barely disguised glee. He was now leaning his weight onto his elbows as they rested on the desk. His hands were clasped, and he was slowly rubbing them together. “Definitely shark territory. What’s the partner’s name?”
“A guy called Michael Hoffman.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“No reason you should; he’s clean.”
“Do we know anything about him?”
“Late thirties. Handles corporate stuff mainly. You know, mergers and acquisitions, IPOs, and the like. Recently made equity partner.”
“Art Jenks would be stunned to learn this.”
“Who’s Jenks?”
“He’s the senior partner at Dudek’s. I’ve known him for a few years. Honest, hardworking. He’s old-school; one of the few I’d still trust to play by the rules.” Caravini thought for a moment. “Could there be another explanation for Hoffman visiting that building? Who else is in there?”
“That’s what I thought, but I followed him myself to Grannis’s floor and watched him go in.” Crouten lifted up the papers in his hand. “And then there are these.”
Caravini glanced at his watch.
“Are you okay to continue?” Crouten asked.
“Yeah. The press can wait.”
Crouten waved the papers. “These are the clincher for me.”
“What are they?”
“They summarize all the recent trades in a stock called Collar Telecom.”
“Didn’t they just get acquired?”
“That’s right. By a company called Spar. Care to guess who handled the legal work for Spar?”
“Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton.”
“Bingo. I bet you can’t guess who the partner was.”
“Hoffman.”
Crouten nodded. “These papers reveal an elevated level of Collar stock purchases in the days before the deal was announced.”
“Can you tie any of them to Grannis?”
“Not all of them, but enough. Seems they acquired the stock through broker nominee accounts so you have to dig around some to find out who the real buyers were. That’s been taking a lot of time. However, a couple of the brokers on the list are well-known to us, so I called in one or two favors. Turns out Grannis has never owned stock in Collar before. Then Michael Hoffman appears at their offices out of the blue, and Grannis’s fund suddenly acquires a raft of shares just before a major acquisition is announced.”
“Funny that.”
“Hardly a coincidence.”
“This could be another Parmadin.” Caravini stroked his chin as he thought. If his team could prove that a Dudek’s partner was feeding inside information to a hedge fund, this would be another trophy conviction. Making mayor with another scalp like this to his name would be a home run. “What more do you need to keep tabs on Hoffman?”
Crouten placed the papers on the corner of Caravini’s desk. “I’m already on it. We’re keeping a close eye on Hoffman.” He pointed to the papers. “And I have some of my people tracking down who’s behind the rest of these trades.”
“Great work, Floyd.”
“I think you’re wrong about Grannis, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“You think Grannis is a small fish and that the big win here is Hoffman.”
“It doesn’t get much bigger than bringing down a Dudek’s partner.”
Crouten uncrossed his legs. “We’re beginning to link Grannis with others in the market, and we’re finding some real interesting sources for his money, particularly in Europe. In time, I think we’re going to find out he’s bankrolled by organized criminals over there. My bet is he’s the real shark here. Hoffman may just end up being our bait.”
“Maybe, but Hoffman is good enough for me. I know I’d settle for him right now.” Caravini tapped the ends of his fingers together. “You know, I think we ought to do one more thing to expedite this.”
“What’s that?”
“You said Towers is innocent?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Good. Let’s bring him in and lean on him some.”
“What’s the point?”
“I want a quick result on this. We may be able to short-circuit things by squeezing the kid for information on his boss. Could save us a lot of time.”
“Isn’t there a risk he’d tell Hoffman?”
“Depends how much we put the frighteners on.”
“He’s young and inexperienced. Probably wouldn’t take that much to scare him.”
Chapter 24
GLASS EYE CLOSED THE ESCALADE’S DRIVER WINDOW to prevent the rain from coming in, and immediately the car filled with cigarette smoke.
Bull Neck faked a cough. “Those things will kill you.” He was sitting in the front passenger seat, every now and then sipping cold coffee through the plastic lid of a paper cup.
Glass eye curled the edge of his mouth. “Whose car is this? Besides, you gotta go somehow.” He held up the cigarette for close inspection. “Might as well be these.” He depressed the wiper control once to clear the rain from the misty windshield.
Bull Neck slurped the rest of his drink then opened the car door and threw the cup in the gutter. “You got any music on this thing?” he asked, reaching for the car radio.
“Leave it. I’ll do it.” Glass Eye turned it on, and the display flashed: Sirius XM ’80s on 8. Bryan Adams was singing “Run to You,” and Glass Eye joined in with the chorus.
“I wish I’d never asked,” Bull Neck said, lowering his window to allow in some fresh air. “In future, I’ll take the Merc.” He waited until the song was finished, then said, “What did you find out about this guy, anyway?”
“Not much.”
“Is he acting alone or what?”
“Not according to my contact.” Glass Eye took one last drag on the cigarette then threw the stub out of the window before closing it again. “Seems we’re being watched as part of Caravini’s great crusade against Wall Street. The prick’s got teams looking at a whole bunch of hedge funds.”
“So is Trouten heading it up?”
“Crouten. Floyd Crouten. He’s leading the fieldwork.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Jeez, you ask a lot of questions.”
�
��Just curious. I like to know who we’re dealing with.”
“He’s in his late twenties. Apparently, he’s one of Caravini’s rising stars, least according to my source. Queer as they come, too.”
Bull Neck looked like he wanted to throw up. “Is that what this place is, the one he’s going to tonight?”
“A gay joint. That’s right.”
“We don’t have to go in there, do we?”
“Just you.”
Bull Neck paled. “I’m not—”
“I’m shitting you. Don’t worry; it’s all taken care of.” Glass Eye pointed to the Minolta camera at Bull Neck’s feet. “You just need to make sure you get everything, especially when he leaves the club later on.”
Bull Neck pointed out of the window. “Is that him?”
Glass Eye wiped the mist off the inside of the windshield with his fingers and operated the wipers. “Yeah. That’s him.” He started the car.
Across the street, Crouten opened a golf umbrella as he came down the steps of his apartment block before standing at the side of the road.
“What’s he doing?”
“He’ll be looking for a cab.”
“Shall we offer him a ride?” Bull Neck said, grinning.
Glass Eye turned off the radio. “That’s funny.”
“How do you know for sure where he’s going?”
“He goes to the same club every Friday. You just worry about the camera, Testino. I’ll take care of the details.”
Bull Neck looked confused. “Who the hell is Testino?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Meanwhile, Crouten managed to flag down a yellow cab, and it headed south after he jumped in. The Escalade began following at a safe distance while Glass Eye rubbed at the glass again before turning on the aircon.
“I told you to leave the windows open,” Bull Neck said.
“It’s not a problem. I know where he’s going anyway.”
Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the Pink Flamingo club in Soho, and Crouten stepped out.
Bull Neck lowered his window and stared at the people filing into the club. “Jeez! I’ve never seen so many piercings. I bet these guys have fun clearing airport security.”
“Make sure you get some of him going in,” said Glass Eye, parking the car across the street.
Bull Neck focused the telephoto lens, by leaning it against the doorframe, and captured a burst of shots of Crouten entering the nightclub. “Not sure many of these will be any good. They don’t prove much.”
“You need to get the name of the building with Crouten in the shot.”
After Crouten disappeared from view, Glass Eye fired up another cigarette and turned the radio back on.
Bull Neck returned the camera to the footwell. “And now what do we do?”
Glass Eye shrugged his shoulders.
“Can we at least go eat?”
“Nope. We wait right here.”
“For what? To get more photos of him leaving?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s the point? I don’t see what they’ll add.”
“You think too much. Who’s running this operation? You, or me?”
“I guess that would be you,” said Bull Neck, cracking his knuckles.
“So don’t keep asking stupid questions. It’s all been thought through.”
Bull Neck sighed, reclined his seat, and settled back for a long wait. “We could be here hours. Did you bring anything to eat?”
“Just be grateful I don’t make you follow him in there.”
Bull Neck shook his head. “Turns my stomach. The thought of it.”
The rain stopped around midnight, and it was just after one thirty when Glass Eye’s cell phone rang.
“Yeah,” he said, taking the call. “Okay, five minutes.” He finished the call then shook Bull Neck’s shoulder, waking him up. “He’s on his way.”
Bull Neck yawned before grabbing the camera.
Glass Eye started the engine and pointed across the street. “That’s him now.”
Crouten staggered out of the club entrance with his arm around a young man. Both of them looked as though they’d had too much to drink, stumbling along the sidewalk.
Bull Neck took more shots. “Who’s that with him?”
“Don’t worry.” Glass Eye looked up and down the street. “He works for us. Make sure you get some of both of them together.”
“He works for us?” Bull Neck grimaced as he clicked away.
Crouten and the young man held hands, standing in line for a cab.
“I sure hope you’re paying our guy a lot of money for this,” Bull Neck said, screwing his face again as their targets began kissing and groping each other.
When they climbed into a taxi, Glass Eye tailed it at a safe distance back to Crouten’s apartment block. Through the car’s rear window, they watched as Crouten slobbered over the young man sitting next to him.
“Don’t they ever come up for air?” Bull Neck said as they parked.
“I hope not. This is costing us plenty.”
“Fat boy won’t leave him alone. It’s disgusting.”
Crouten and the young man disappeared into the building, and Bull Neck put down the camera.
Glass Eye pulled the Escalade into the road. “We’re done here. What are the pictures like?”
Bull Neck used his fat thumb to scroll through the images on the Minolta’s screen and smiled. “Real cute.” He stopped and frowned when he reached one of the close-up shots. “Exactly how old is the young one?” He held up the screen for Glass Eye to see.
Glass Eye took his eye off the road for a second. “Nice work. That one alone ought to do it.”
Chapter 25
TOWERS SPENT THE WEEKEND at his parents’ house in Jamestown, Rhode Island, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. His mom, who’d spent many years as an amateur actress, treated the family to a performance and dinner at the Newport Playhouse, where they mingled with her actor friends once the show was over. She kept introducing him to everyone with, “This is my son, Glen. He’s a lawyer at one of the top firms in New York.”
Sunday morning, after a family breakfast at his dad’s favorite greasy spoon on Newport’s Thames Street, Towers set off for his drive back to New York. There was work to be done, preparing for his meeting with Michael tomorrow on one of their new deals from Corton Zander. So far, Towers was satisfied he’d made a good impression at the firm, and Michael seemed pleased with the quality of his work. But the annual cull of first-year associates was fast approaching, so it was important he didn’t drop the ball now.
He figured the drive would take him around three and a half hours, as it was normally a clear run on a weekend. The route out of town took him over the Newport Bridge back to Jamestown. When he paid the four-dollar toll, Towers thought it was cheap for the wonderful views over Newport Harbor from the top of the suspension bridge. There were two huge cruise liners moored along the front, and he could make out people walking along the top deck of one of them. It was a perfect, clear day and, once he reached the high point, he could see way beyond the coast toward Block Island, where he’d spent many summer vacations as a child. At the far end of the bridge, he pulled his Mazda MX-5 Miata to the side of the road and hit the button to close its retractable hard top.
Half an hour later, he was on I-95 South heading toward Westerly, where his mother came from and where his parents had lived just after they were married. From here, the journey would become less interesting, as it was freeway along the length of Connecticut, all the way to the outskirts of Manhattan. Towers cranked up the radio and switched on the cruise control. The Mazda had been a gift from his parents when he qualified as a lawyer and won the job as a first-year associate at Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton. His father, who was also an attorney, had been so proud of his son picking up a coveted position with such a prestigious New York firm.
Towers hardly noticed the first hour and a half on the freewa
y. The music was good, and the vehicle’s closed hood cocooned him in a warm embrace. The first time he noticed a problem was when the flashing light of the patrol car appeared in his rearview mirror. Out of instinct, he hit the brakes and watched as the patrol car overtook him. He couldn’t have been speeding. The cruise control had been set to sixty, as he knew some stretches of the Connecticut Turnpike were still limited to fifty-five. As instructed, Towers stopped the Mazda at the side of the freeway behind the patrol car, and an officer walked over to him.
“License, please,” said the officer. His tone made it clear it was more an order than a request.
Towers reached for his wallet. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Not yet.” He took the license, looked at Towers, and compared him to the photo. “Stay here,” he said before returning to his patrol car.
Towers watched the officer through the rear window of the police vehicle. He appeared to be having a long conversation on his radio. A few minutes later, he returned to the Mazda’s open window.
The policeman handed the license back to Towers. “I want you to follow me off the freeway. We can’t deal with this here.”
“Is this really necessary?” Towers fought the urge to say: “You do know I’m a lawyer.” He’d once seen his father pull the same trick and remembered how it hadn’t gone quite according to his father’s plan. He never tried it again.
Towers bit his tongue and followed the patrol car off the freeway at exit fifty-one just before New Haven. They drove along Woodward Avenue where, to the right, a large park opened up, with the ocean beyond.
“Where’s he taking me?” Towers said out loud. “There are plenty of places to stop along here.”
Seconds later, the patrol car indicated right. Towers looked at the sign as he followed. It said: US Coast Guard Station. The police vehicle pulled up outside a square, nondescript red brick building. There were only a couple of other cars sitting in the reserved spots outside. Towers parked the Mazda next to a black SUV and got out.
“I’d like to know what’s going on,” he said to the officer approaching him. “Am I under arrest?”
Once a Killer Page 13